Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 127712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
It’s not even my name. My name is Ryanzski, I want to tell them. Or, preferably, Nova. But I can’t. Because the Institute has dubbed me Ryan and clearly that’s who I am now.
Then, off to my left, I see ‘the guy.’ The one I just jerked off in the woods.
He’s got his shirt back on and when he smiles in my direction, it comes with a little laugh.
Oh, my God. Is he talking to his friends about me?
Do I already have a reputation?
Did I just fuck everything up?
I’m silently panicking when he, and a group of five other men, come my way.
“Hey, Ryan,” one of them says. “How are you settling in?” He’s tall, muscular, and has close-cropped blond hair. Like a crew cut. But he’s not clean-cut, because his stubble is days old and his eyes are bloodshot. His body conjures up the word ‘physique.’ It’s so perfect, I almost want to touch him to make sure he’s not some kind of marble statue carved by a master.
“Um…” is all I manage to say. Because someone else is already talking.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, everyone,” Crewcut says. “Give her some space. Remember what it was like on your first day?”
Everyone pauses to smile, agree, and then mumble something about their first day at the Institute.
“I’m Olsen,” Crewcut says. “I’m your neighborly advisor. And I live across the sidewalk from you. You got in late last night, so I didn’t come by and say hi. But”—he hooks his arm through mine and starts leading me off to the edge of the group—“we’re gonna be seeing a lot of each other.”
I look over my shoulder at ‘the guy’ and find him smirking at me.
But Olsen is still talking. “Sunday, how’s that sound?”
I wasn’t listening. “I’m sorry, what about Sundays?”
“No, not every Sunday. Last Sunday of the month. That’s when we meet. I like to cook, so you’ll come over and we’ll eat and talk.”
“Why am I doing this?”
Olsen laughs. “It’s my job to keep an eye on you for the first month. This place has its own… culture. It’s an adjustment. So I’m just your easy in. We’ll have daily check-ins for the first week too. I’ll knock on your door in the evening, you’ll answer the door, I’ll ask you how you are, you’ll tell me. And then, if you need some help, I’ll be there.”
I stop walking and turn to look him in the eyes. Dark blue. “What am I missing?”
“What do you mean?”
“What’s so… stressful, or whatever, that I need a daily check-in?”
“You’re not stressed?” One of his eyebrows goes up.
I shrug. “I mean… it’s a little bit stressful, I guess. But it’s like a new school. I’ve been to three of those in my academic career and you don’t get this far in science without some stress.”
His eyebrow goes down. “Well, that’s wonderful. Truly wonderful. I’m happy to hear it. But I’ll pop by anyway. It’s just for the first week. Besides, you’re nice to look at.” He winks at me.
Despite this compliment, he does not check me out. So I’m not sure if he really thinks I’m nice to look at, or this is just a line he feeds women when we get pushy.
I am nice to look at, though. Not as tall and slim as Stalls, but she and I could probably share clothes in a pinch. My hair is a very pretty shade of strawberry-blonde. It looks dyed. Highlighted, and lowlighted, and generally fake in all respects, that’s how spectacular my color is. And my eyes are forest green. People generally assume they are brown from a distance, but when they get up close, they can’t stop staring at them. And in the sun, they are the color of midsummer moss.
I’m facing the sun and Olsen is looking me in the eyes, but he’s not staring at them like they are special.
So again, I wonder, does he really think I’m nice to look at? Or is it a line?
He leads me back to the group and starts introducing people. Walker, Docent, Valencia, Marcos… the surnames go on and on. I have no hope of remembering any of them. I wait for Olsen to get to the guy I jerked off in the woods, but by the time we’re on that part of the crowd, he’s gone.
I am given coffee and a little cookie on a napkin as we all chat. It’s nice, I guess. I am here to work, not socialize. But still, it’s nice. And I can see Olsen’s point about the culture aspect of working at the Institute. If I assume that we’re all working on top-secret shit and can’t share our projects, then it’s nice to at least be around people who get that secrecy. And who won’t make you feel weird about it.